“Got it. I’ll be on the bridge in a bit.”
“Do you think it’s a job?” Jack asked.
“I hope so. Subtracting what it’ll cost us to buy another skiff, we’ll barely break even from this trip.”
Jack sniffed the air a few inches from Riley’s face. “Damn it, Alex . . . Don’t tell me you’ve been hitting the bottle.”
“Okay.” He shrugged. “I won’t.”
“It’s eleven in the morning, not drinking time.”
“Is it really that late?”
Jack scoffed, “Shit, you’re the captain, you have responsibilities.”
Riley’s expression darkened. “What the hell do you know about responsibilities?”
Jack knew he’d struck a chord. “This again? Aren’t you tired of rolling in your own shit?”
“Everyone rolls where they want—or where they can.”
“Look, Alex, if you want redemption, go on a pilgrimage on the fucking Camino de Santiago, but stop acting like a drunken idiot. You’re the fucking captain of this ship,” he said, poking Riley’s chest with his index finger, “and I’m not your mother.”
Riley gave a sour grin. “I thought you were.”
Jack shook his head, clicking his tongue, and turned to leave.
Riley listened to his friend’s footsteps for a moment, then slammed the door shut. The record player was playing Louis Armstrong’s “Melancholy Blues,” pain in every note. Riley set sail for the half-empty bottle of bourbon on his desk—an hour would be more than enough.
On time, Riley entered the bridge, seemingly clear-headed and smelling only slightly of alcohol. Sitting in front of the cumbersome radio, he tuned to the frequency on the paper. “Pingarrón here,” he said, pressing the transmission button. “Pingarrón here. Can you read me? Over.”
Static.
“Pingarrón here. Pingarrón here. Do you read me? Over.”
“François here. I read you. Comment ça va, Captain Riley? Over.”
“Good, merci, François. It’s good to talk with you again. How are things in France?”
“Not very good . . . That coward Pétain’s kissing Hitler’s ass, and the Nazis are screwing everyone. One day those Vichy traitors will pay.”
“I hope so,” Riley said. “I really hope so.”
In June of the previous year, immediately after taking office as president of unoccupied France, Marshal Pétain had asked for a truce with Hitler in exchange for collaborating with the Germans. Giving in to the power of the Nazis, he had established a new fascist government in Vichy.
“Anyway, I didn’t call to complain about my problems, but to see if you’re available for a little job. Where are you?”
“About two hundred miles east of Barcelona, going to make a delivery there.”
“Wonderful! I have some merchandise I need you to pick up in Marseille and take to Lisbon. It’s already paid for, and it’s practically on your way. You could be here tonight and only lose a day.”
“There’s a problem,” Riley said. “My hold’s full of textile machinery, there’s no space for much else.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that . . . They don’t need more than one or two of your cabins.”
“They? You mean passengers?”
“It’s a couple that needs to leave the country. Can I count on you?”
“Yes . . . of course.”
Jack took Riley’s index finger off the transmission button. “Something’s fishy here.”
Riley nodded, then turned back to the microphone. “But I have a question. Why don’t they take a plane or go across Spain on land? It’d be much cheaper to get to Lisbon that way.”
Silence.
“François? You still there?”
“Yes, you see . . . It’s not so simple.”
“It never is.”
“They’re an Austrian couple, very wealthy . . .”
“And?”
“And Jewish.”
The Banker and the Admiral
Despite the poor condition of the telephone line, the Majorcan banker identified the voice on the other end as that of the admiral. It was not the first time they had talked. A casual encounter two years earlier at a reception at the Spanish embassy in Berlin had grown into a close and mutually beneficial collaboration. Juan March offered to secretly provide fuel for German submarines in Spanish territorial waters. In return, he not only received substantial amounts of money from the Kriegsmarine—the German navy—but also got occasional access to privileged information, which he used for his own benefit.
“At dawn, it will cross Gibraltar along the south coast of the strait,” Admiral Canaris said in an unmistakable German accent. “One of my submarines will be waiting to send it under.”
“Understood. And then you want me to recover that strange machine from the wreck,” March said.
“That’s right. I can’t let it fall into British hands, and if you get it, you’ll be generously rewarded.”
March hesitated for a moment. “Wilhelm, are you sure this line . . . ? You know what I mean. Are you convinced no one is listening to us?”
“I’m the head of the Abwehr,” he said. “Do you think I’d be discussing this with you if I weren’t absolutely sure?”
“Yes . . . of course. Forgive my natural paranoia, my friend.” He cleared his throat and let a few seconds pass. “You see . . . It will not be easy to find the right people for the job on such short notice, Wilhelm. And it’ll be very expensive to bribe both the English and the Spanish not to come snooping.”
Canaris sighed. “Has money ever been a problem?”
“I know, I know,” March said with a greedy smile.
“Can you do it?”
“Of course, Wilhelm. Although all this is . . . very disconcerting.”
“Don’t worry. Just do what I ask.”
March, who never hesitated when it came time to close a deal this lucrative, faltered.
“I can’t give you details, Juan,” Canaris said, softening his tone. “But if you follow my instructions to the letter, you’ll do some good business, and I’ll owe you a personal favor.”
March’s business instinct told him that when a deal seemed too good to be true, it probably was.
Canaris seemed to read his mind from nine hundred miles away. “What do you have to lose? If it goes bad, you won’t face any consequences. If it goes well, you’ll earn a lot of money.”
March nodded. “Okay. It won’t be easy, but you can relax. I’ll do it.”
“Excellent. I’m confident you’ll do a good job.”
“Not to worry. I’ll contact you as soon as I can.”
“Thanks, and good luck. Auf Wiedersehen, Juan.”
“Thank you. Hasta luego, Wilhelm.”
3
“We shouldn’t have agreed to this,” Marco muttered, shaking his head in disgust.
Riley crossed his arms. “It’s not your decision.”
“It’ll bring us trouble,” he said.
“Are you afraid of a pair of refugee Jews?” Jack joked. “You can lock them in their cabin if it’ll help you sleep better.”
“I don’t like those people.”
“And I don’t like you,” Riley said, grinning, “but you’re still here.”
Marco grunted.
“Well, it seems fantastic to me!” Julie jumped in. “I really wanted to go back to France. I know a restaurant in the center of Marseille that—”
“I’m sorry, Julie,” Riley said. “We’re not going on land, it’s too dangerous. We’ll pick the passengers up a mile offshore and head to Barcelona immediately.”
Julie sighed and shrugged sadly, but was soon back cuddling with her husband.
“Any other questions?” Riley asked, looking around.
“I have one,” César said. “You said the passengers are going to Lisbon, right?”
“That’s right.”
“But we’re going to Barcelona.”
“Right,” Riley s
aid. “What the couple pays us will cover the costs, and when we unload the equipment and find a buyer for the other merchandise, we’ll look for a job that’ll take us to Portugal, and whatever we get from there will be all for us.”
“Yeah, but . . . it can’t be that easy. Sometimes we spend over a month waiting to get hired.”
“Well, in that case we’ll have to accept whatever job comes up, even if it’s legal.” Riley stood up. “So, if there aren’t any other questions, I suggest you get everything ready and try to sleep a little. We’ll arrive off the coast of Marseille early in the morning, and I want to be in international waters with the cargo on board before daylight. Get some rest, it’s gonna be a long night.”
At three thirty in the morning, the Pingarrón dropped anchor in the Bay of Marseilles. They hid in a small cove on the Ratonneau islet, out of sight from port authorities and curious sleepwalkers.
With all its lights off, the dark-blue Pingarrón was like a shadow. It could enter and leave without being seen, but if it were detected by a military patrol, having not notified anyone of their arrival, they would be charged with espionage and executed, their neutral Spanish flag doing little to save them from the firing squad. The night might be calm, but they were still on the coast of a country at war.
The whole crew was on deck, dressed in black and silent. They watched for any sign of the people they were expecting and those they weren’t. Riley peered into the darkness from the roof of the bridge. Sitting down with his legs hanging and binoculars around his neck, he looked at the stylized basilica of Notre-Dame de la Garde that stuck out from behind a mass of rock, rising into the sky like a shiny needle. Though he couldn’t see the city itself, he could make out the yellow glow of Marseille’s lights. Just one mile away was the famous island of If, where Alexandre Dumas set one of Riley’s favorite novels, The Count of Monte Cristo.
“Captain,” Jack called, “I see something just ahead, in the water.”
Riley lifted the binoculars to his eyes and saw a rowboat advancing slowly from the shore.
“It’s gotta be them,” Jack said. “I’ll throw the ladder.”
“Not yet. Not till we make sure.”
“Who else would be rowing around here at this hour?”
“Wait until they come and give you the password. It won’t cost anything.”
“You’re in charge.” Jack went to the prow, carrying a coil of rope around his shoulder.
Riley knew his friend was right, and waiting would be silly. But after the scare last night, he decided it was better to be overcautious than overconfident. It was a dangerous business, and your next mistake could always be your last.
Ten minutes later, the rowboat was alongside the ship, and its occupants were clumsily climbing the rope ladder. Riley could barely make out their silhouettes. Once Jack whistled to confirm they were on board, Riley hopped onto the bridge, where Julie was awaiting orders.
“Is your husband in the engine room?”
“Oui, Capitaine.”
“Let’s move. Back one quarter till we get out of this funnel. Then turn toward port heading two-two-five and full throttle till we’re at least twenty miles out.”
“As you wish.”
“I’m going down to greet the new arrivals. Oh, and don’t turn on the lights yet, I don’t want any last-minute surprises.”
“Of course, Capitaine,” she responded. “Say hello to them for me.”
He closed the door behind him, went down the metal stairs to the main bridge, and headed to the cabin set aside for the passengers. Like a good captain, he knew every inch of his ship by memory and could go through it with his eyes closed. That was useful on nights like this when even lighting a cigarette could blow their cover.
He felt his way down the hall—bumping into Marco on his way, who was going back to deck—until he found the door and knocked.
“Come in,” Jack answered.
Riley went in and found Jack holding a lit match. In front of him two people sat on the edge of the bed, seeming scared and out of place. One was a man in a suit, tie, and bowler hat with a bulky suitcase at his feet. The other, a woman, wore a large hat; she had her head down and hands on the lap of a wide, nondescript dress. Their features were obscured by the darkness as they listened to Jack go over the rules of the ship.
“Like now,” he was saying. “It has to be dark, and you can only turn on the light with the shutters closed. You can’t go on the main deck unless it’s with the express consent of Captain Riley—this man—or me. And under no circumstance, ever, are you to go on the bridge deck or to the engine room, understand? We’ll take you to your destination, but remember this is not a passenger ship, and the journey will be dangerous. Follow the rules, and everything will be fine.” He turned to Riley. “Do you want to add something?”
“No, Jack,” Riley said with a smile, “I think you’ve scared them enough. I’m the captain, Alex Riley. Welcome aboard the Pingarrón. I imagine you’re exhausted, so we’ll let you rest. Tomorrow morning we’ll introduce ourselves properly, okay? And relax . . . You’re among friends.”
The man looked up, and the flame of the match reflected a look of gratitude in his eyes. Understanding it was time to leave, Riley and Jack got up and started to head to the door, but Jack stopped. “Oh, breakfast is at seven, and I suggest you don’t miss it, because this boat has the best cook on the Western Mediterranean. That is to say, me.”
Barely three hours later, fatigue on their faces, the whole crew enjoyed Jack’s breakfast: pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, and French toast. Despite all the time they’d been together, there was no shortage of anecdotes or obscene jokes, with Jack taking the lead as usual.
“That was when Alex and I left the trench late at night with a can of paint and two brushes,” he said almost in a whisper, making his fingers walk on the table. “Under the cover of darkness, we went to . . . Do you remember the name of the town, Alex?”
“Actually, I don’t even remember your being there. Are you sure you fought in that war?” Riley said.
“Ha, I don’t even know why I bothered asking. What happened was we crossed enemy lines without anyone noticing, took the red paint, and wrote on the facade of the church”—he took a breath to keep from splitting with laughter—“‘Paco the fat ass is a faggot.’”
Julie looked puzzled. “And what does that mean?”
“‘Paco the fat ass’ is what many of us, including some of the fascist rebels, called General Franco.”
“You risked your lives for some stupid graffiti?” Marco asked. “Wouldn’t it have been better to set off a bomb or something?”
Jack looked at him, shaking his head. “This was much more fun. The best part was the next day, when Franco himself appeared in the town to review his forces on the front lines, and—”
“That was only a rumor,” Riley interrupted to try to annoy him.
“Well, I like to think it actually happened. Can you imagine his face when he found graffiti in the center of a town taken by his troops? That day he probably smoked more soldiers than I did the whole war. They should’ve given us a medal for that!”
“Right,” Riley said. “A medal for—”
Just then a man dressed in a sober brown suit appeared in the doorway. He was around seventy or seventy-five years old with combed white-gray hair, little reading glasses on his prominent nose, big ears, a narrow jaw, and a pair of shifty eyes that made him look like a scared mouse—a mouse in a suit. “Good morning,” he said with a German accent, hands clasped like a child asked to come to the chalkboard.
Consciously disregarding protocol, Riley stood up and motioned to an empty chair. “Have a seat and eat, before this pack of hyenas finishes everything.”
The man sat down, said thank you, and hesitantly took a piece of bread.
“How was your night? Did you sleep well?” Riley said.
“Wonderfully, thank you,” he answered as Jack put a cup of coffee in front of him. “You’re
all very kind.”
“It’s nothing. I want you to feel at home on my ship. Speaking of my ship,” Riley said, “let me introduce you to my crew. This lovely lady over here is Julie Daumas, our pilot and navigator.”
“Enchantée,” she said.
“This one sitting next to her,” he continued, “is her husband, César Moreira, the mechanic and jack-of-all-trades of the Pingarrón.”
“Bom dia,” César said with a slight nod.
“And this guy who just finished serving coffee and preparing this stupendous breakfast is the first officer, amazing chef, and my old friend Joaquín Alcántara. We all call him Jack.”
“Morning,” Jack said, turning to concentrate on the mountain of pancakes in front of him.
“And finally, this man looking at you like you just robbed the henhouse is Marco Marovic.”
“I don’t like Jews,” Marco said. “I don’t like having them on board, and I’m sure they’ll bring us problems, so I’ll have to be on guard the whole time.” He took a pistol from his belt and slammed it on the table.
“Damn it, Marco! What the hell are you doing?” Riley stood up. “Get that gun off the table! This gentleman is our guest, and if you talk like that again I’ll throw you overboard, understand? Now get out of my sight!”
Marco reluctantly got up from the table and left the room, still staring at the newcomer sunk low in his chair. As soon as Marco had closed the door behind him, Riley sat down and addressed the terrified gentleman. “I apologize, sir . . .”
“Oh, yes. Excuse my rudeness,” he murmured, still pale. “My name is Rubinstein. Helmut Rubinstein.”
“I apologize for the inexcusable behavior of my crew member, Mr. Rubinstein. We have a theory that Marco was born in a ditch and raised by wolves.”
“You can call me Helmut,” he said, forcing himself to sound calm. “And I accept your apology, it’s not the first time I’ve had to deal with someone who hates Jews . . . But I’m curious, what is Mr. Marovic’s role?”
“Huh?”
“You’re the captain, Mr. Alcántara your second, Ms. Daumas the pilot, and Mr. Moreira the mechanic, but what is his role on the ship?”
Captain Riley (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 1) Page 3
